


Ouroboros

by kamerlort



Series: Uthando [3]
Category: Jumanji: The Next Level (2019), Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Real World, Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends, F/F, Gen, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Multiple Relationships, Original Character(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22388341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamerlort/pseuds/kamerlort
Summary: Professor Sheldon Oberon had made a sworn promise to himself: that he would never again return to the jungles of Jumanji. However, two years after their first fateful mission, a new threat arises that could destroy all of Jumanji for good. Knowing that the danger is far greater than ever before, the help of a certain ally is needed—manifesting in the very form of Oberon’s greatest fear.
Relationships: Jefferson "Seaplane" McDonough/Sheldon "Shelly" Oberon
Series: Uthando [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1131896
Comments: 31
Kudos: 32





	1. From the Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back! Two years later and just a little bit past the release of Jumanji: The Next Level, I am back and ready to write more for this universe I love more than life itself. I want to thank everyone for the amazing responses I’ve received on my last two fanfics. It’s your support that makes all of this effort worthwhile!
> 
> This story takes place during The Next Level timeline. Canon divergence is heavily expected. Updates will hopefully be sooner rather than later. Comments and feedback are appreciated. Thanks so much for reading!

In the distance, a plume of gray clouds rolled over the torrential ocean waves, gliding steadily across an endless purple sky.

The sunrise was only just beginning to crest against the lapping blue horizon. Shatters of fragmented light caught the cobalt waves in winks, obscured only by the massive stormcloud sweeping in eastward. A twinge of uncertainty seemed apparent in the air, as if the breeze were pondering whether a cascade of raindrops would soon be carried on its back to the sandy white shore below.

It was an inexplicably perturbed morning. The sunrise seemed to hesitate below the ever-growing stormcloud, wary of the baleful energy permeating throughout the salty air. Even the fauna along the foreshore appeared to sense the same foreboding, small creatures tucked beneath the sand in safe, damp burrows.

The only living presence found across the foaming shoreline was in the carefree stride of a young child, no more than ten years of age. He seemed too content to sense the strange aura that the morning had brought. On wobbly knees, he danced barefoot around the sandy dunes and skipped over the occasional rock lodged alongside the grassy berm.

It was a strong gust of seaside wind that caused the boy to falter in his footsteps. The cold breeze unsettled the mass of curls on his head, and he quickly squeezed his eyes shut, shielding his vision from the piercing currents. Speckles of white sand dotted his skin as he turned his back to the wind, cracking a single eye open and towards the dark water before him.

To his surprise, a previously-unseen boat was docked just past the rocky outcrop, half-hidden near the far edge of shoreline. The natural precipice that jutted out from the high escarpment separated the inlet from the rest of the island’s vast shores, providing some sense of privacy for the people who dwelled there. Only about five meters long, the sea-roughened dinghy swayed along the swollen waves that crashed against the nearby stacks.

Another blast of wind carved deep against the boy’s skin. Shivering quietly, he could not tear his eyes away from the empty vessel that rolled in tandem with the relentless ocean waves.

_Something wasn’t right here._

Turning on his heel, the boy dashed back toward the way he came, stumbling over pockets of dry sand that swallowed him up to his ankles. Strands of dried-out seaweed stuck to his feet as he forced himself back over the large dunes that separated the mainland from the beach. Throwing caution to the wind, he thrust himself into the tall whisps of seagrass that nearly overtook him in height, blindly pushing forward.

Just past the large patch of seagrass laid a modest cottage, half built of stone from the very same cliffside that crawled alongside it. The chimney that curved around the back was slowly exhaling smoke, signaling that its inhabitants were awake. Although the sloping structure appeared to be hastily cobbled together, a certain air of homeliness was apparent in the intricately-weaved dresses near the entrance of the home.

Finding himself to be nearly out of breath, the boy sped towards the small cottage, throwing one last cautionary glance over his shoulder as he paused with one hand at the door. The abandoned boat was now too far to see clearly, fully hidden from the boy’s view by the rising promontory beside the cottage. Craning his head back, the boy followed the soaring headland with careful eyes, feeling another stab of uncertainty twist low in his stomach.

All the hairs on the back of the boy’s neck immediately stood on end. Near the very edge of the bluff, the faint silhouette of a man stared back at him.

For a moment, the boy thought he was imagining the stranger’s presence. Blinking rapidly, he forced himself to watch the silhouette as the sun continued to rise above the horizon. In the dim light of early morning, the stranger remained nothing more than a black mass against the backdrop of purple sky behind them.

The silhouette remained motionless. Not a movement was made as they continued to stand as still as a statue, seemingly transfixed on the small cottage below.

Heart hammering wildly against his ribcage, the boy pushed himself through the salt-stained door and into the safety of the small cottage. Sagging in relief, he rested his perspiring forehead against the cool iron rivets that dotted the wooden frame, finally closing his eyes as he tried to gather his thoughts.

“And just where were you off to, Alexander?”

The boy froze. Whipping himself around, he splayed his long arms back against the door and averted his mother’s scolding gaze.

“...I was just out exploring.”

An exasperated huff and the sound of wet clothes sloshing about forced Alexander to timidly step forward, his eyes still trained on the ground.

“You know I don’t like it when you leave before sunrise. One bad fall and your father and I wouldn’t have the faintest clue where you were,” his mother chided as she set aside the washbucket near her feet. “Come here. Let me look at you.”

Alexander tried hard not to roll his eyes as his chin was enveloped by the well-worn fingertips of his mother’s hand. The wet swipe of a thumb against his cheek brushed away imaginary dirt as he finally locked eyes with the smiling woman before him.

“There’s a man outside,” Alexander omitted, noting with latent curiosity that his father was nowhere to be seen.

“A man? You mean one of the merchants on their way to the market?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Alexander turned his head back towards the door. “He was standing near the top of the cliffside when I saw him.”

His mother seemed to pause, turning over the boy’s words in her head. Patting his cheek with a gentle hand, she stood up and brushed out the negligible wrinkles in her apron.

“Your _tama_ went to the port for supplies and should be back very soon. Why don’t you help me finish the laundry?”

Not keen on receiving another reprimand, Alexander reached for the bucket of wet clothes and grabbed the wooden washboard. A proud smile from his mother had him ducking his head in embarrassment, watching as she retrieved another tub of linens and exited out the front door.

Alexander made hard work of the laundry, scrubbing at the faded garments with a ferocity that turned his fingertips bright red. Just beyond the nearby window, he caught glimpses of his mother draping white sheets over their makeshift clothesline, battling the ocean breeze as she expertly pinned the linens down.

The howling wind outside was strong enough to rattle the lone windchime that rested beside the front door. Handmade by his father, the twinkling bits of seashell danced around each other, their cadence seemingly more haunting than Alexander had ever noticed before.

Another piercing shriek of wind had the young boy shivering in response. The fire that burned behind him in the kitchen had little effect on the cold chill that seemed to seep through to his very bones. Setting aside the washbasin, Alexander wrapped his arms around his knees and stared out the rectangular window, following the ascending cliffside with keen eyes.

The sudden bang of the front door against its adjacent wall had Alexander jumping out of his skin. Whipping his head around, the boy let out a stilted sigh of relief as the familiar sight of his father greeted him. However, the reassurance was only temporary as the alarmed look the man’s face had all the blood in Alexander’s veins run cold.

“Alexander, what is this I hear about you seeing someone outside?”

The boy remained silent as he watched his father swiftly approach, dropping down to his knees as he waited for Alexander to meet his questioning gaze. Sensing that the young boy was frightened, the man lowered his eyes and stroked at his chin, settling one large palm over his quaking shoulder.

“Alexander, I need you to listen to me. Did you recognize the man at all?”

“I—I don’t know,” Alexander finally stuttered, unnerved by the evident panic on his father’s usually-stoic face. “I couldn’t see him all that well.”

Staring past the man’s shoulder, Alexander watched as his mother quietly entered the stone cottage, her mouth set in a thin line. Quickly shutting the wooden door behind her, she suspiciously set the iron deadbolt lock into place—something Alexander had never seen her do before.

“Wayde, stop it. You’re scaring him,” the woman admonished, eyes narrowed as she hastily made her way to her husband’s side.

“I need to be sure that there’s no one sneaking around our home, Teuila. If Alexander saw a stranger outside, I want to know who it was.”

Flinching slightly as he watched his father stand to full height, Alexander took a few modest steps back and situated himself by the rectangular kitchen window.

“He’s just a child. There’s no use getting panicked over something he presumably imagined seeing.”

A humorless huff by his father had Alexander pressing a hand beneath his chin. “He’s a boy, not a dullard. And he’s got good eyesight too, which will help him when he becomes a sailor.”

Alexander turned his back on the pair, letting them continue their indistinct argument as he stared through the frosted glass window. Although the weather appeared to be clearing up, the distant ocean waves looked like black tar being spread out over the pale, white sand.

A flicker of movement from the left caught the boy’s eye. A dark mass seeming to slide out of perception, disappearing against the rocky backdrop as quickly as it appeared.

_It was him. It was the stranger._

Alexander hadn’t been aware of his retreating from the window until his back collided with the firm line of his father’s leg. Eyes wide, he continued to stare at the upper corner of the glass paneling, throwing his arms behind himself and into the worn material of his father’s trousers.

“Alexander? Are you alright?”

The concerned question from his mother fell on deaf ears. Not waiting for the boy to respond, Alexander’s father pried the child from his leg and hurried toward the window, hands balled into tight fists.

Only a few quiet seconds of observation had the man’s entire body going rigid.

“Teuila. Get Alexander out of here.”

Stomach dropping at his father’s words, Alexander took another hasty step backward, frightened by the man’s vacant expression. His mother descended on him in a flash, wrapping her arms around the boy’s trembling shoulders.

“What do you mean—who’s out there?”

The man could only shake his head in disbelief. Each passing second had his breaths turning more shallow, chest heaving as he braced himself against the windowpane. After a few more moments to gather his thoughts, the man met his wife’s eyes, his expression now determined.

“You need to get Alexander out of here. Now.”

An immediate understanding of her husband’s words had Alexander’s mother clutching her son tightly against her chest. Dropping to her knees, she let out a steadying breath as she spun the boy around, molding her hands over his frail shoulders.

“ _Atali’i_ , listen to me. I need you to listen carefully. You know the way to the market, right? I want you to run there as fast as you can. Do you understand me, Alexander?”

The blood was now rushing too loudly in Alexander’s ears. A slew of unshed tears threatened to fall as he glanced between the identical pictures of dismay on his parent’s faces. Unable to garner a response, the boy broke off into a sob as he watched his father descend on him, placing one calloused hand on his wet cheek.

“Who is that man? What does he want with us?” Alexander blubbered, terrified for a reason he could not identify.

“I don’t have time to explain, son. I need you to go to the port and find Marlow. When you find him, tell him to send as much help as he possibly can. Are you able to do that?”

Still frozen in place, Alexander shook his head. “I can’t—I’m scared, I don’t want to leave—”

The horrifying shriek of wind only intensified as an indistinct clatter of metal against metal was heard outside. The door, still held in place by the iron deadbolt, rattled on its hinges as if it were threatening to be blown open.

“Teuila, get him out of here _now!_ ”

Chaos drowned out the boy’s senses as he was lifted from the floor, held firmly in place against his mother’s shoulder as she fled to the other side of the cottage. Letting out a cry of protest, Alexander could only struggle against her vice-like grip as she wrenched open the small window above the kitchen table.

“Go find Marlow! Don’t stop running and don’t come back until you find him!” Alexander’s mother urged, eyes wide and glassy as she set the boy down along the windowsill.

“Tina, I can’t leave you!” Alexander sobbed, grasping at his mother’s vest as she forced him through the opening.

“I love you, Alexander—please, _please_ understand—understand that you need to get out of here before—”

Even on the other side of the window, Alexander could see the enormous outline of a man prowling just outside the cottage door. Muscles falling slack from shock, the boy was gently pushed through the narrow opening and onto the soft dirt outside. His shock-addled body quaked in fear as he craned his head upward, watching with wide eyes as his mother gave him one last voiceless command.

_Run._

Alexander’s thoughts slowed to a halt as he watched his mother attempt to shut the oblong window. Leaving just a gap between the pane and the glass panel, she turned her back on the boy and hurried out of sight.

That was when Alexander heard it.

It was an awful sound. Almost akin to a discordant drumbeat, the clank of heavy metal colliding against the wooden grain echoed throughout the still air. Scrabbling along the dirt, Alexander crouched low against the cobbled wall and covered his ears, trying to block out the rhythmic strikes of fury against the cottage door.

It was the sound of the wooden frame being torn from its hinges that brought the boy back to reality. Alexander could feel the reverberations of the door as it slammed against the stone wall, the iron deadbolt most likely shattered beyond repair.

That was when all went silent. Alexander uncovered his ears and rested his cheek against the freezing stone wall, straining to hear what was to happen next.

“So here you are, Bravestone. After all this time.”

The voice was unfamiliar, tinted by a strange accent that Alexander somewhat recognized from his time near the harbor. The voice was low, gruff and strained, monotonous in tone and yet horrifying to the boy’s ears.

Another pause.

“I expected you both to be begging on your hands and knees, but perhaps I overestimated your willingness to live.”

“Jurgen,” Alexander’s father replied, his faint voice more calm and collected than the boy had expected. “I’m not going to play whatever game it is that you’re trying to initiate.”

A humorless laugh met the man’s words.

“You knew the consequences when you deserted, Bravestone. Your prior dedication to Zhatmire cannot change the fate you set for yourself. All the years you served alongside me, abandoned, and for what?”

The sound of thunderous footsteps steadily approached, echoing loudly throughout the small home.

“So much potential wasted for the life of a common merchant. I must admit, I too could be persuaded to such a life if I found a family half as lovely as your own.”

Alexander’s father snarled, drowning out the stranger’s words in a hiss of fury.

“I would not trade my family for anything, Jurgen. If I am to be punished for that with my life, than I will gladly greet death with open arms.”

Profound silence met the man’s challenging words.

“So be it, then.”

The tense quiet that followed was shattered by the distant windchime, most likely unsettled by a gust of ocean breeze. Soft clinks of seashell against seashell were carried on the salty air, drifting through the parted window.

A metallic resonance ushered the twinkling windchime from the boy’s ear. The sound of a knife being unsheathed—a familiar sound that brought memories of scaling fish carcasses beside his father’s side, curious eyes focused on a glinting steel blade.

Not a single scream was uttered as the sick slide of knife against flesh drifted past the open window. A wetness seemed to spill from each frenzied stab, faint choking gasps drowned out by a low snarl that tore its way through the entire house.

Alexander’s eyes refused to close. Two shaking hands encircled his mouth, hot tears spilling out over his knuckles.

The fresh stench of death was quickly overpowered by an acrid smell of smoke. For a moment, Alexander wondered where exactly the smell was coming from, his eyes soon catching sight of a plume of black smog leaking from the cracked window.

Weakly crawling away on hands and knees, Alexander could only sob as he threw one last glance back at the burning cottage. An eternity must have passed by unnoticed, for the cottage’s straw-covered roof was now consumed by a blaze of fire. Hands curling into fists, Alexander watched as the golden weavings turned to ash against the hazy purple sky.

Burnt hair and charred flesh permeated throughout the air. Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, Alexander continued to drag himself further away from the decaying stone home, unsure if he were still alive himself.

Another burst of flame took out the glass window nearby the cottage’s former kitchen. Licks of dry heat pulsated from the opening, and Alexander finally collapsed against a large stone boulder, watching the rapid deterioration with burning eyes.

He had to have been dead, for a person inexplicably walked out between a swell of scorching flames not a moment later.

Even through the blistering smoke, Alexander could easily take in the stranger’s full visage. A heavy overcoat shambled together from various animal pelts stretched across the man’s broad shoulders, half-covering a molded metal breastplate. The man’s face was almost entirely obscured by a grizzled beard, two thin braids keeping some of the wild hair tucked away.

Alexander felt his stomach twist, his mouth as dry as the sand beneath his grasp. The stranger stopped just a few meters away, observing the boy with a narrowed, cold gaze. For the time being, the man merely stared at Alexander, quirking his head to the side as he finally took another decisive step forward. The machete in his grasp was stained wet with blood, blotting the white sand beneath its curved blade.

He was going to die here, all alone.

Alexander closed his eyes, sucking in a short but steadying breath. He prayed for his soul, prayed that his death would be swift and painless and over in a heartbeat.

A single hand brushed gently against the crown of the boy’s head. Letting out a low sob, hot tears flowed openly down Alexander’s cheeks as he shook from head to toe.

The hand paused, fingertips just barely brushing against Alexander’s unruly curls. Cracking one eye open, the boy imperceptibly craned his head back, trying not to stare at the machete swaying at the man’s side.

Suddenly, the phantom presence was withdrawn from Alexander’s head. Digging his own fingers into the soft sand beneath him, Alexander sheepishly turned his gaze towards the man’s face, locking eyes with the stranger’s icy gaze.

A pitying look warped the man’s harsh features, thick eyebrows upturned as he studied the boy at his feet. Letting out a harsh grunt through his nose, he blinked twice in quick succession, taking a small, merciful step backwards. 

The man sheathed his machete in one swift motion. Glancing back at the blazing cottage, he wrapped one hand around the hilt at his belt and glided past Alexander, expressionless.

Beneath the now-high sun, the cottage continued to burn, red flames licking at its golden rays in mock battle. The spew of smoke choked the boy’s lungs as he watched the stranger disappear into nothingness, taking with him the only life that Alexander Bravestone had ever known.

* * *

Dark eyes snapped open, shocking the world into a blinding wakefulness.

The last few tendrils of sleep clung to the corners of Professor Sheldon Oberon’s eyes. Slowly melting away as the man let out a heavy sigh, his heart pounded deep within his chest, signaling the after effects of what must have been a long-forgotten nightmare. Wracking his sleep-addled mind, Oberon could not remember what exactly had transpired during his respite, though the few short trills that traveled down his spine suggested that it hadn’t been a pleasant dream.

Taking in another deep breath, Oberon shifted beneath the quilted duvet that enveloped him and reached a hand towards the left side of the bed. Palms spreading out over the satin sheets, Oberon lifted his head and gazed quizzically at the empty spot where Seaplane usually resided.

It was only the faint scent of burnt toast and fried eggs that alerted Oberon of where his partner had wandered off too. Smiling to himself as he gave his body a hearty stretch, the man begrudgingly crawled out from underneath the warm duvet and instantly shivered as the chill morning air caressed his skin.

Thankfully, Oberon’s navy-colored robe was right where he had tossed it the night before. Haphazardly strewn across the back of a nearby lounge chair, Oberon was quick to snatch up the garment, cinching the silken belt at his waist. Another quick stretch and the swipe of a hand across his face lead him sauntering into the nearby living room, eyes trained on the connected kitchen past the vaulted archway.

To Oberon’s never-ending disbelief, Seaplane was already dressed and ready for the day to come. Dark black curls were stylishly coiffed, and a plain button-up dress shirt was tucked neatly into a well-tailored pair of trousers. Blushing slightly as he eyed Seaplane’s backside, Oberon couldn’t help but try to sneak up on the man as he continued to work, half-bent over a steaming iron skillet.

“Glad to hear you’re finally awake,” Seaplane called out, barely audible over the sizzling eggs he tossed with a metal spatula. Cursing the man’s superhuman hearing, Oberon took a seat at the chair next to Seaplane, crossing his arms in mock defeat.

“What, are you saying I slept in too late?”

Turning to meet Oberon’s gaze, Seaplane couldn’t withhold a smile as he leaned forward, planting a gentle kiss against the man’s lips.

“All I’m saying is that had you slept any longer, you’d end up missing the gala tonight.”

Oberon let out a low chuckle, wrapping a hand around Seaplane’s neck as he deepened their shared embrace. Gazing at his partner through half-lidded eyes, Oberon was almost hesitant to pull back, even with the eggs slowly overcooking on the heated stovetop.

“Can you believe that it’s finally here, Jeff? I feel like it’s been an eternity since we all were in the same place at once,” Oberon murmured, finally relinquishing his grip on Seaplane.

“I know—I’m actually somewhat anxious about it,” Seaplane replied, grimacing as he looked down at the slightly-browned eggs in his pan.

Oberon, now slathering a charred piece of toast with a glob of raspberry jam, looked up at his partner in confusion. “Why do you feel anxious about it?”

Seaplane shrugged his shoulders, spooning the rubbery eggs onto a ceramic plate. “I don’t know... I just don’t want to feel like we’ve suddenly grown to become a group of strangers.”

Abandoning his slice of toast, Oberon reached a hand up and grasped at Seaplane’s palm, quickly threading their fingers together. Contemplating what he could say that would possibly quell the same fear echoing in his own heart, he pulled the other man closer to him, peppering his knuckle with a smatter of kisses.

“It’s only been about six months since we all last saw each other. I know that you’ve never really been apart from the group for such a long period of time, but I doubt they wouldn’t still consider us to be family.”

Giving the man a doleful smile, Seaplane brought their clasped hands up to his own lips, returning Oberon’s affection with a more fervent intensity.

“How is it that you always know the right thing to say?” Seaplane questioned against his skin, squeezing Oberon’s hand as he stared at the man through dark lashes.

“Maybe it’s because I know you better than anyone else,” Oberon replied, relinquishing his grip so Seaplane could finally take a seat at the kitchen table.

Watching the man clamber past him in amusement, Oberon finally took a modest bite of the slightly-burnt toast at his plate. The bread sported an acrid char that was a common feature in their household, accented by the jam’s sweet-but-not-too-sweet glaze.

“I’m just glad we’re all meeting together under normal circumstances, you know?”

Seaplane hummed in agreement, shoveling a forkful of egg into his mouth. Though he would never admit it, the uneventful two years that had passed since their first mission hadn’t seen nearly as much excitement since.

“You know,” Seaplane began, mouth still full of unchewed food, “I wonder if Bravestone is going to take a break from adventuring—he’s done so much work for the archeological community over the years. I think he deserves it.”

“You really think he’d ever retire? I’m sure Bravestone will have himself running into an early grave.”

Seaplane nodded absentmindedly at Oberon’s words, seemingly distracted as he turned his gaze toward the nearby living room. Just opposite one of their many bookshelves rested a shoji screen, a gift from a friend Seaplane made in Japan a few years back. Hanging off the edge of one of its wooden beams was a modest three-piece tuxedo, cleaned and pressed of any noticeable wrinkles.

“Regardless of what happens, the gala tonight will be worth it,” Seaplane announced, fixing his partner with a sly grin.

Quirking up one slender eyebrow, Oberon felt a smile beginning to grow on his lips. “And why do you say that, dear Jefferson?”

“Because any opportunity to see you in a suit as nice as that one is sure to be a good time for me.”

Feeling himself flush in embarrassment, Oberon shook his head. “The second we get back here, the suit is coming off.”

“Well that’s for damn sure,” Seaplane murmured, now reaching for his partner’s hand as he rose from the table. “And I will be very thankful to have the honor of tearing it off of you when the time arrives.”

Following the other man’s lead, Oberon rolled his eyes and allowed Seaplane to situate them in a closed position. Leaning into the man’s steady grip, he couldn’t help but let out another laugh as Seaplane sent them careening into the living room, humming a dreamy little tune as he went.

* * *

Two years seemed too short a time to encapsulate all that had changed in Oberon’s life.

Upon his initial return from Jumanji, not much had been discussed between Seaplane and himself about the finer details of their future together. More effort had been focused on the pilot’s slow but steady recovery. They had spent a good month after the mission just tending to Seaplane’s wound, endless nights surrounding a sterile white hospital bed before the man was finally discharged.

Thankfully, Bravestone’s connections within the archeological world had taken Seaplane out of his prior piloting duties. When they had finally boarded the aeroplane that would take them back to London, Oberon thought he would cry from joy. Jumanji was a place that the good Professor was not keen on ever setting foot on again—a promise he had made to not only himself, but to Seaplane as well.

It took the better half of a year to get Seaplane’s citizenship in order. Of course, Bravestone had been the major key in the speedy transition to civilian life for the pilot. When Seaplane wasn’t stressing over the drastic lifestyle change, he continued to tag along with Bravestone and the others in various other missions, none of which were particularly dangerous.

Oberon hadn’t had nearly the same amount of luck. It was the happenstance of a single archeological dig (manned by the anthropology department) that allowed Oberon his one and only opportunity to continue working with his former troupe.

Of course, the other professors at the university had no qualms about helping out the famous archeologist. Oberon had spent most of that mission stealing kisses with Seaplane in Antioch, glad that no looming threats of certain death stalked him at every turn. Bravestone had announced his intentions to travel westward after they had finished, stating that there was much work to be done on the Mesoamerican front.

Oberon felt his heart ache as he reminisced. Warm spring nights were spent under the stars, laughter shared among friends that had now become more than just friends. Bravestone and Finbar gifted him a new pocket-watch on the eve of his forty-third birthday. Roundhouse had even been kind enough to lend Oberon a set of newly printed textbooks.

It was only when Seaplane had finally settled in London that Oberon experienced such joy again. That night had been spent in quiet ecstasy, side by side with the man he loved more than life itself.

Letting out a sigh, Oberon opened his eyes and transfixed his gaze on Seaplane’s profile. The man always held a look of intense concentration when he drove, though it was moreso a byproduct of trying to understand the difference in driving laws than anything else.

The wet winter slush that lined the sides of the streets was a harsh reminder of early January. Oberon was thankful that the short break between semesters extended for another few weeks, not keen on having to sit in his unheated office for any prolonged amount of time. Glancing out the frosted window, he watched anxiously as they approached the familiar Greek Revival colonnade of the British Museum, now packed with throngs of salient patrons.

Seaplane was careful not to go roaring through the valet area. Once their automobile crawled to a gentle stop, the man threw Oberon a proud smile, shoving the wooden brake into place.

“Look at that! We’re both still in one piece,” Seaplane announced, sliding across the seat as he swung open the driver’s door. Grinning as he watched the man hand the valet his keys, Oberon followed suit and stepped out into the frigid night breeze.

“And you only hit the curb twice this time!”

“Better the curb than that one time I nearly ran over an elderly woman.”

Stifling a laugh, Oberon shook his head and eyed his partner as he rounded the car. Seaplane had managed to find a gently-used suit in the few weeks prior to the gala, and had taken great care in hiding it from Oberon since. The dark grey material was accentuated by ivory pinstripes, and Oberon couldn’t help but blush as the man extended his arm in offering.

A sliver of nerves twisted low in his gut. Shaking away the paranoia, Oberon gently wrapped one hand around Seaplane’s elbow, forcing a smile to grace his lips as they ascended up the stone stairway.

The main forecourt was packed with a modest number of museum financiers. Women and men alike were covered in fanciful garb, accentuated by long fur overcoats to combat the piercing breeze. Seaplane was quick to guide the pair deeper into the frieze, protected from the harsh winds that whipped past the ionic columns outside.

“Are you sure we’re even going to find the others?” Oberon hissed out of the corner of his mouth, imparting a faux smile on every person that met his gaze.

“It shouldn’t be too hard,” Seaplane whispered back. “Dr. Bravestone is a somewhat hard person to miss.”

Assuaged by the man’s words, Oberon continued to follow his lead. Just ahead of them and through the entrance hall laid the enormous circular structure of the Reading Room, home to a plethora of books that Oberon itched to one day get his hands on. Keeping his eyes focused forward took more effort than expected as they continued to pass ornate display cases, crowded by the many patrons who graced the front hall.

A set of heavy wooden doors gave entry to the main walkway, leading to the front of the Reading Room. Making sure to keep one hand on Seaplane’s arm, the pair gently pushed past the swarms of tittering contributors, careful not to knock into anyone as they went.

It was the grandiose dome of the great library that first took Oberon’s breath away. Styled in a Pantheon-like fashion, the gold and periwinkle ceiling seemed to stretch far higher than Oberon remembered. Ornate glass windows slottled along every section of the intrados, leading to the circular occulus at the very center of the dome.

“I always knew you were a fan of Smirke’s Roman influence.”

Oberon jolted at the phantom voice that whispered low in his ear. Snapping his head around to figure out where it came from, his mouth immediately fell open as he took in the familiar visage of an old friend.

“Jonathan!” Oberon exclaimed, instinctively wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders. “It’s so good to see you!”

Seaplane took in the sight of the two men embracing with a slightly-bewildered expression. Brows furrowing as he watched the pair disconnect, Oberon was quick to grab ahold of his partner’s shoulder and introduce him to the man now grinning before them.

“Jefferson, this is my old colleague, Jonathan Parrish. He’s one of the main curators here at the museum, and a talented researcher as well.”

Parrish extended a hand in greeting. Forcing an amicable smile to grace his features, Seaplane accepted the offering and clutched the man’s hand with more force than necessary.

“Former curator, actually. I submitted my resignation just a few days ago.”

Oberon’s mouth gaped open once more, baffled by the man’s words. “Resignation? What do you mean?”

“You know as well as I do that I’m well due for retirement,” Parrish replied, fixating Oberon with a guileless grin. “I’ve spent far too much time locked away in the archival department, mulling over old pieces of parchment and broken pottery.”

“But all your research... surely you intend to continue working on your next dissertation?”

Parrish let out a low chuckle, patting Oberon on the shoulder. “There are more important things to me than writing research papers, my good friend. A quiet life in New Hampshire is calling for me.”

The sound of raucous laughter interrupted Oberon’s thoughts. Following the sound with his eyes, the man couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear as he took in the sight of two young boys, pushing past the well-dressed patrons with little care for decency. Indignant gasps met their every movement as they knocked against elbows and upsetted champagne flutes.

“Samuel and Skyler, get over here this instant!” Parrish hissed, trying to keep his voice low enough to not disturb the other guests. The two boys seemed to take note of their father’s resigned fury, quickly ambling towards the man with coy expressions on their faces.

A few choice words from Parrish in both boy’s ears sent the pair back in the direction they had came. Oberon couldn’t help but feel a tug of sympathy for them, knowing that their father would give them an even harsher scolding once the night’s events had ceased.

“I honestly don’t know what to do with then sometimes,” Parrish whispered in Oberon’s ear, leading the pair deeper into the library. “Hopefully Cliffside will whip them both into shape before it’s all too late.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much. They may be a handful now, but I’m sure they’ll do you proud.”

Parrish gave Oberon another small smile. “I appreciate your support as always, Sheldon. Remind me to thank you personally before the gala ends.”

Straightening out his black bowtie, Parrish turned again to face Seaplane, giving the man a curt yet respectful nod. Before either man could ask Parrish any more questions, he disappeared into the sea of black suits and satin dresses, dignified even in departure.

“He seems nice,” Seaplane grumbled as he finally reached for his own glass of champagne, stopping one of the many servers that traversed the library with silver trays in hand. Making sure to grab a flute for Oberon as well, he failed in keeping a bitter frown off his lips.

“Don’t sound so enthused,” Oberon replied, narrowing his eyes. “He’s an old friend I haven’t seen in a long time. And he’s married with children, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Seaplane pursed his lips, moving closer to the other man. “I don’t trust anyone who can know someone like you and _not_ fall madly in love.”

Blushing behind his bubbling champagne glass, Oberon fixed Seaplane with a heated gaze. The sound of orchestral strains filtered through the air, tingeing the scene with a romantic atmosphere. Moving an inch or so closer to his partner, Oberon felt a deep longing to embrace the man ache low in his heart.

“You’re just saying that,” he murmured, face still flushed a deep red.

“You know I don’t lie about such things,” Seaplane whispered, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

Oberon was half-inclined to kiss the man where he stood (decency and lawfulness be damned) when a familiar flash of red hair caught his eye. Glancing past Seaplane’s shoulder, he nearly let out a shout as a pair of people quickly approached, their faces contorted by wild grins.

Seaplane seemed to catch on to what Oberon had spotted. Spinning on his heel, he barely had a second to take in the pair before they slammed against him in greeting.

“Jeff! Shelly!” Finbar cried, wrapping his arms around the two men with a choked gasp. Roundhouse followed not a step behind, her longer arms fitting well over their scrunched shoulders.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you two!” Roundhouse proclaimed, an uncommon smile brightening her features. “For a moment, I was worried you had ended up skipping the gala altogether.”

Oberon felt a slew of tears threatening to fall as he took in the sight of his friends. Roundhouse was nearly unrecognizable, wrapped in a dark navy evening gown that surrounded her lithe frame. Finbar himself adorned a three-piece suit, sans his usual hat and curled hair styled fashionably.

“I wouldn’t miss this for anything,” Oberon finally uttered, trying not to let the emotion show in his voice. Both Roundhouse and Finbar gave the man another quick embrace in response, stirring tenderness in Oberon’s heart.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you guys,” Seaplane responded as he clapped Finbar on the shoulder. “It’s been tough being separated from you and Dr. Bravestone for so long.”

Oberon quirked his head to the side, finally noticing that the aforementioned man was nowhere to be seen. “Where is Bravestone, anyway? I thought for sure he would be with you two.”

Finbar’s expression immediately turned dour. “Your guess is as good as mine. We traveled to London separately, seeing as he had some urgent business to attend to.”

Giving Roundhouse a side-along glance, she shook her head. “It was strange. He didn’t give either of us much information, other than some spiel on how it was a private matter. He did tell us that he would be in London in time for the gala.”

A prickling unease settled in Oberon’s gut, too familiar a feeling for the man’s liking. Glancing around the enormous domed room, he couldn’t help but try and conjur up an image of Bravestone in the crowd.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t be crazy enough to miss his own gala,” Seaplane murmured, sounding only half-convinced in his statement.

Finbar gave a distant nod, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Dark eyes traveled to the champagne flute still held tightly in Seaplane’s grasp.

“I think I need a drink. I’ll catch up with you all when I’ve managed to find one,” Finbar grumbled, eyebrows drawn tightly together. Giving the group a forced smile, he too disappeared into the restless crowd surrounding them.

Roundhouse crossed her arms in front of her chest. Reaching for Oberon’s glass, she motioned for the man to let her take a sip. Deciding it was not worth it to refuse her, he relinquished his drink and watched as she downed the entire flute in one fell swig.

“So you don’t have any idea where Bravestone could have gone to?”

“Not particularly,” Roundhouse muttered, wiping at her bottom lip. “He usually tells Mouse everything. The fact that he was so secretive about this mission makes me nervous.”

“How long ago did he leave?” Seaplane questioned, handing Oberon his own half-empty glass.

“About three days ago. We had just left Yaxchilan when he apparently had a message delivered to him. Just like that, he was already packed and ready to leave without another word.”

Oberon pursed his lips. “Did he seem... off at all?”

Roundhouse’s brow furrowed deeper. “I may not know Bravestone as well as Mouse does, but even I could tell something was off. It was almost as if he were... unsettled by the news he had received.”

Finbar reappeared not a moment later, now carrying his own glass of champagne. Sensing that the conversation had continued without him, he gave a heavy exhale through his nose and took a generous sip, no longer contributing to the talk about Bravestone.

The zoologist’s timing couldn’t have been any better, for a sudden hushed murmuring fell over the crowd of patrons. The melodious string quartet fell silent as the sea of people parted, revealing the elder Parrish as he stood with hands clasped behind his back.

“I would like to start the evening by thanking the many generous benefactors that made the gala possible,” Parrish announced, voice echoing throughout the vast library. “It is an honor to be standing here among the friends and family of this museum.”

The ritzy patrons clapped along politely, amicable smiles gracing the faces of nearly every person that surrounded the former curator. Oberon continued to slide his gaze around the vicinity, perplexed by the fact that Bravestone was still nowhere to be seen.

“As you all know, we are gathered here tonight to celebrate the exemplary accomplishments of Dr. Alexander Bravestone. His contributions to the archeological world, as well as his unyielding dedication to protecting and preserving various cultural artifacts, is worthy of the utmost praise.”

Another round of subdued applause filled the quiet air. Parrish gave a tight smile, one side of his mouth quirked higher than the other.

“The contributions you all have made to the British Museum, whether through patronage or other means of support, mean everything to Dr. Bravestone and myself—which is why it saddens me greatly to announce that the good Doctor will not be able to attend the evening’s festivities.”

Oberon felt his heart leap in his chest, nearly dropping the empty glass now lax in his grip. A rumbling of discontent immediately settled over the crowd, an odd few men and women flushing red in anger as they barraged Parrish with various questions.

The former curator merely raised his hands in concession, quelling the stream of questions altogether. “Due to unforeseen circumstances, Dr. Bravestone was not able to make it to the gala in time. As his confidant in the matter, Dr. Bravestone and I urge you all to enjoy the gala regardless of the situation at hand. That is all.”

Hisses of displeasure only intensified as Parrish weaved his way through the throngs of unhappy patrons. The woody plucks and vibrations of the string quartet sounded up again, drowning out the intense murmurings that followed the former curator as he quickly approached Oberon and the others.

“You lot, come with me,” Parrish hurriedly whispered, grasping at Oberon’s shoulder with a firm-yet-gentle grip. Still stupefied by the man’s announcement, Oberon could do little but follow Parrish’s lead, acutely aware of Seaplane following closely by his side.

“You knew where Dr. Bravestone is and you didn’t tell us?” Finbar interrogated, stalking next to the other man with barely-contained fury now evident in his voice.

Parrish seemingly ignored the man’s question, directing the group of travelers to the long walkway of the Reading Room’s main entrance. Making sure to appear as discrete as possible, Parrish sidled along the wooden wall and out into the entrance hall, thin lips pressed firmly together. Motioning for the others to follow with a quirk of his head, the man descended the principal staircase at their right, half-jogging down the massive stone steps.

Oberon couldn’t help but mentally praise Parrish for his seemingly perfect sense of direction, though he knew it was a byproduct of countless years roaming the museum halls. Apprehension settled low in his gut, and Oberon absentmindedly reached for Seaplane’s palm as they weaved through the numerous darkened galleries.

The other man was quick to sense Oberon’s fear, returning the gesture with a warm and steadying grip. Feeling calmed by Seaplane’s hold, Oberon continued to push forward, keeping his eyes on the back of Parrish’s head.

“The director’s office is just around the corner,” Parrish announced, throwing the group a look over his shoulder. “I recommend that you all be sure not to mess with any of the things that you might find there, correct?”

Propelling himself forward until he was Parrish’s side, Finbar pointed an accusatory finger towards the man’s chest before he stopped in his tracks. “We don’t even know why you’ve brought us here—and you’re worried about us touching your things?”

“Not my things,” Parrish quipped, blinking twice in response. “The director’s things. I’m sure that Dr. Bravestone will be willing to repeat the message for you in the next few minutes.”

All four members of the group stopped dead in their tracks.

“Bravestone—he’s here?” Roundhouse questioned, incredulous.

The sudden sound of approaching footsteps had everyone stiffening in surprise. Just past the well-lit corner hallway, a dark shadow reflected along the ivory-white walls. Seeming to grow with every footstep, Oberon found himself unable to blink, dark eyes locked onto the undulating shadow that drew steadily nearer.

When Dr. Bravestone stepped out into the narrow walkway, an apologetic smile graced his weary face. Dressed in a wrinkled white dress shirt and plain black trousers, he seemed almost apprehensive as he stopped just a few paces away from the rest of the group, arms stiff at his sides.

“I suppose I should apologize in advance for missing the gala.”

A beat of silence met his words.

The slew of questions that quickly bombarded the archeologist were too numerous to count. Holding up his hands in surrender, Bravestone took a cautionary step back, his mouth set in a hard, thin line.

“Really? An lukewarm apology is all you have to offer us?” Finbar spat, pointing a finger directly at the center of Bravestone’s chest. “Where the hell were you! Why didn’t you tell us where you were going?”

Bravestone offered the man a half-hearted smile, gently moving Finbar’s accusatory finger away from his sternum. “I’m sorry for all the secrecy, Mouse. I can assure you that it was not without intention.”

A heartfelt hello was offered to Roundhouse before Bravestone turned to face Seaplane and Oberon. Opening his muscular arms wide, he quickly wrapped the two men up by his elbows, pressing them against the bulk of his chest.

“It’s so good to see you, Doc!” Seaplane mumbled against the material of Bravestone’s shirt.

“It’s so great to see you both,” Bravestone replied, quickly pulling back to allow the men some air. “You look well. I’m glad to see it.”

Oberon couldn’t contain the contagious smile that spread out over his face. Fixing his now-askew spectacles, he brought one hand up to grasp at the other man’s wrist.

“Dr. Bravestone—not to repeat what everyone else has already said, but where exactly were you?”

The sudden change in Bravestone’s disposition had a trill of fear travel down Oberon’s spine. Pulling away from the other men, the archeologist raised one palm to massage at his scalp, eyebrows drawn tightly together.

“Something... something has come up, to say the least.”

A hush fell over the group as they waited for the man to elaborate.

“It’s something bad, isn’t it?” Roundhouse questioned, breaking the silence.

“Yes. It is.”

Bravestone nimbly turned on his heel, re-entering the narrow hallway he had just emerged from. The others were quick to follow the man’s long strides, Oberon throwing one last glance over his shoulder to notice that Parrish had seemingly disappeared.

“There’s been another situation—an important artifact has been stolen.”

“By who? What artifact?” Finbar interrogated, struggling to keep up at Bravestone’s side.

The double oak doors of the director’s office were just a few steps ahead. Bravestone abruptly slowed his pace, now ambling along the walkway with apprehension in every step. Pausing beside the wooden doors, he turned back to face the group, expression now openly fearful.

“I need to ask you all to trust me.”

Oberon blanched. Swinging his head around, he gazed at the others in quiet confusion.

“What’s happening?” Roundhouse whispered, voice wavering. “Something’s wrong, and you’re not telling us.”

Ignoring her statement, Bravestone settled one hand over the worn iron doorknob. “When I left a few days ago, it was to retrieve help for this next mission—help that’s required for what we’re about to deal with.”

Finbar let out an aggravated scoff. “Cut the bullshit, Alexander, and tell us what’s going on.”

Bravestone clenched his eyes shut.

“Just trust me. I know I’m asking a lot, but I need you all to trust me.”

Seaplane suddenly reached for Oberon’s shoulder. Digging his fingers into the silken material of the suit, he stared intently at Bravestone, eyes wide.

“Doc... who’s behind those closed doors?”

Bravestone met Seaplane’s gaze with a solemn stare. Oberon, shocked by his partner’s words, could only gape at the archeologist as he squared his shoulders and twisted the metal knob.

The heavy door groaned as it opened, deafening in the still quiet of the museum. A flicker of light emanated from the director’s office, signaling an unseen presence from within its ominous depths.

Oberon felt as if his feet were moving on their own accord as all five people funneled into the dark room. Brushing past Bravestone, his eyes locked onto the roaring fireplace situated just beyond a timeworn desk, casting dancing shadows along the nearby wall.

A single armchair was positioned towards the fire, facing the sweltering heat that cascaded off the smoldering pit. For a moment, Oberon hadn’t even noticed the shadowy figure standing beside the antique seat, eyes solely focused on the lone person slumped against its threadbare upholstery.

Oberon’s heart stopped dead in his chest. The hauntingly familiar face of Russel Van Pelt stared back at him, as real and tangible as all of Oberon’s greatest nightmares foretold.


	2. Difficult Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on world events, it’s been a tough 2020. Sorry for a fairly late update, but more will be coming soon! This chapter is a little shorter, dialogue heavy, and wild. Comments and feedback are appreciated as always.

A wide-eyed stare was all Oberon could muster in the face of sheer, blind terror.

The frantic pounding of his heart rushed through his veins, each traitorous heartbeat mercilessly loud in his ears. The Professor could not tear his eyes away from the sight before him, engrossed in the visage of Van Pelt hunched in on himself, trancelike and still.

Despite the horror that gripped him, an almost sickening sense of curiosity trickled into Oberon’s mind. Van Pelt had not made any effort to move, the profile of his face nearly shadowed by the blinding swell of firelight beside him. Even in his state of panic, Oberon couldn’t help but wonder if the man were carved entirely out of stone, unmoving in his quiet, stoic rumination.

A single leather eyepatch covered Van Pelt’s left eye, obscuring the milky-white iris that had followed Oberon into countless, terror-filled dreams. Van Pelt’s other eye merely stared back at the group of people before him, analyzing them in what might have been a contemplative stare.

The click of metal to his right forced Oberon from his tumultuous thoughts. Snapping his head to the side, he blanched at the sight of Roundhouse holding a derringer in her polished grip.

“Wait—don’t shoot!” A phantom voice rang out, jarring in its familiarity. Before Oberon could even blink, another person stepped out into the firelight, pushing themselves in front of the antique chair.

The man seemed desperate in his plea, now openly showing his palms in a gesture of surrender. A mop of auburn hair and a blue pinstriped shirt jolted Oberon’s memory, and the recognition that followed had him uttering the man’s name in a hushed whisper.

“Nigel?”

With a curt nod, Nigel Billingsley lowered his arms a few scant centimeters. Not willing to break from his position, the man let out a harsh sigh and turned his frantic stare towards Roundhouse, his lips held in a thin line.

“Please, don’t—don’t shoot him. I can explain.”

Roundhouse took little heed of the other man’s words, cocking the hammer with an almost fervent intensity. The anger in her eyes had Oberon taking a step backward, colliding into Seaplane’s sturdy chest as the man gripped him by the shoulders.

“You told us he was _dead_ , Bravestone. You said you took care of him,” Roundhouse snarled, not lowering her derringer.

“Ruby, please!” Bravestone interjected, finally joining Billingsley in taking a cautionary step forward. “Put the gun away—I promise, we can explain everything.”

“Like hell you can,” Finbar finally retorted, now standing near Roundhouse’s side. The look on his face was a mixture of raw emotion, though his eyes burned with a newfound animosity for the man on the other side of the room.

The look of sorrow on Bravestone’s face had him momentarily frozen, gazing at Finbar with a mournful stare. Before he could offer any vindication, the room went quiet as a shift of movement sent shadows across the nearby wall.

Van Pelt silently rose from his seat beside the fireplace. A neutral expression graced his features as he idled past Billingsley, openly making himself a target for the barrel of Roundhouse’s pistol.

Roundhouse furrowed her brow at the man’s actions. The tip of her finger grazed the metal trigger, a hair’s breadth away from unloading a round into Van Pelt.

“You had better start explaining everything _real_ quick, Bravestone, because I’m about to shoot this son of a bitch where he stands.”

Van Pelt remained motionless, his uncovered eye staring openly at the woman’s face. Billingsley, now half-hidden behind the man’s hulking figure, could only look on in quiet horror.

“Okay,” Bravestone murmured, sounding defeated. “Okay.”

Another lapse of silence took hold. The fireplace crackled noisily in the distance, spraying a few lone sparks across marbled floor. Oberon could hardly keep his attention on the scene before him, now hyper-focused on the way Seaplane’s hands shook against the lapels of his suit.

“All of you were right when you said you didn’t think I would be able to take care of the situation,” Bravestone began. “I know that I should have been able to, but I... I couldn’t. I never could.”

Finbar’s entire face contorted over the man’s words. Openly biting his tongue, he waited for Bravestone to continue, his hands knotted into tight fists.

“I know it was a cowardly thing to do—to risk the safety of you all just to ease my own conscience. I know that this is something that might tarnish your opinion of me for good... and I accept whatever the effects may be on my own terms.”

Oberon clenched his jaw. The anger that had begun to burn low in his stomach was now bubbling up into his chest, causing each breath he took to grow more shallow than the last.

“So that’s it, then? Because you were buddies in the past, you just decided to excuse all the horrible things this _monster_ has done?” Roundhouse snarled, clenching her fingers tightly around her pistol. “Jesus, Bravestone. He nearly murdered Seaplane!”

A harsh intake of air unsettled the curls near Oberon’s nape. Stomach twisting with unease, the Professor turned to meet Seaplane’s eye, his revulsion for Van Pelt intensifying as he took in the pilot’s horrified expression.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Bravestone countered, sounding pained.

“Is it though?” Finbar snapped, immediately cutting Bravestone off. “That’s always been the reason, hasn’t it? You can’t give up the past. For some god-awful reason, you just can’t let it die.”

Before Bravestone could respond, another voice interjected. “Please—do not place the blame entirely on Dr. Bravestone.”

Taking a hesitant step forward, Billingsley looked entirely out of his element as he surveyed the group before him. The hat that was typically perched atop his head was now being worked between his restless fingertips, pulling nervously at its brim.

“I asked him not to escalate the situation any further,” Billingsley continued, squaring his shoulders as he spoke. “If you want to distribute the blame, I will openly admit my own guilt as well.”

“So what, you two are friends now?” Finbar questioned, sounding affronted at the very thought. “You’re okay with everything this bastard has done?”

Billingsley narrowed his eyes at the man’s accusation. “Perhaps I’m just capable of seeing the broader picture.”

Van Pelt was quick to raise his hand, settling it squarely on Billingsley’s shoulder. Dumbfounded by the action, Oberon could only stare as the two men shared an unknowing look.

“I just want to know why you would dare set foot in here,” Finbar interrupted, glaring at Van Pelt as the man finally met his gaze. “I want to hear it from you directly, before Ruby delivers us the proper justice.”

All eyes settled on Van Pelt, watching the man with an unwitting intensity. Appearing unperturbed by the attention, Van Pelt took another step forward, his undamaged eye surveying the group before him. Letting out an inaudible breath, the man faced Finbar directly, his face half-illuminated by the dying embers beside him.

“Because Jurgen is back, and you’ll need me if you’re going to stop him.”

Finbar froze. Roundhouse immediately lowered her derringer, snapping her attention to Bravestone as the man clenched his eyes tightly shut.

“No,” Finbar countered, his voice a faint whisper. “You’re lying.”

Oberon turned to face Seaplane, confusion muddling the flurry of thoughts that overtook him. The pilot could only stare blankly at Bravestone in turn, his mouth slightly agape as he too shook his head in disbelief.

“It’s true,” Bravestone murmured, breaking the tense silence. “And if we don’t act soon, there will be no end to his chaos.”

Van Pelt remained anchored in his position as he slowly dragged his gaze across the room. The dark iris that seemed so alien to Oberon probed along the line of people before him, coming to a stop as Oberon met his unblinking eye.

A rush of adrenaline pumped through the Professor’s veins. His heart hammered violently against his ribcage as he held Van Pelt’s gaze, frightened of what might happen if he broke their stare.

“He doesn’t know,” Van Pelt observed, continuing to hold Oberon’s gaze captive. A look of rumination passed over his face as Oberon crumbled into himself, wishing he had the gall to steal the derringer out of Roundhouse’s hand.

“He doesn’t _need_ to know,” Seaplane finally interjected, his words coming out as a harsh snarl. “None of this is any concern of ours.”

Bravestone took another step forward. “Seaplane, this is a concern for all of us.”

“A concern for you, maybe, but we’re not taking any part of it.”

Oberon, incensed by the fear that bubbled in his chest, wrapped one hand around Seaplane’s bicep. “Jeff—please.”

Seaplane clenched his jaw. Staring glassy-eyed at Bravestone, he waited for the other man to continue.

“I think it might be best if you explained the situation,” Bravestone murmured, finally turning to face Billingsley. “Seeing as you were there when it happened.”

The field guide gave a curt nod. “Alright.”

A few quiet moments of contemplation allowed the man to gather his thoughts.

“As far as I knew, Jurgen hadn’t been seen or heard from for the better half of a decade. He and his horde haven’t made any attempts to move past Mount Zhatmire since their last effort to gain control in the Eastern territories.”

Roundhouse shook her head. “You thought he was dead?”

“I was sure of it,” Billingsley replied. “It’s not common for vengeful warlords such as Jurgen to retire prematurely. If I hadn’t seen the disaster myself, I’m not sure I would have believed it.”

Another beat of quiet concentration overtook Billingsley. To his left, Van Pelt shifted his weight forward, unblinking.

“There’s more than one jewel that holds power in Jumanji.”

Oberon’s eyes grew wide. An astounded silence settled over the room as Van Pelt’s voice echoed off the empty walls.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Finbar interjected. “Please—tell me you’re joking.”

Van Pelt ignored the man’s pleas. “I’ve researched the legends of Jumanji all my life. It’s true.”

“Wait, wait—you’re saying there’s two of them? Two jewels?” Roundhouse interrogated, sounding unconvinced.

“There’s possibly three,” Billingsley elaborated, “but only two that we know of for sure. Jurgen and his men ransacked the people of the Avian Province, and it just so happened that he knew they had the Falcon Jewel in their possession.”

Five sets of eyes stared blankly at the two men. Billingsley pressed on.

“The local people say the Falcon Jewel represents the physical body of the land and it’s people. Without it, there is no life on Jumanji. No crops, no land. The trees and plants die out—and so does everything else.”

“We don’t know how or even why Jurgen stole the Falcon Jewel,” Bravestone replied, “But I do know that whatever the reason is, isn’t good. If he keeps the jewel hidden away for long enough, all of Jumanji could be destroyed. And I... I can’t let that happen.”

The man drew his mouth into a thin line, brows furrowed as he mulled over his thoughts.

“And that’s why we need all the help we can get.”

The unspoken name of Van Pelt was not lost on the members of the group. Roundhouse still gripped her pistol tightly, unrelenting in her anger as she shifted her focus back on Bravestone.

Finbar was the first to let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, I see. So we already had to deal with a maniac stealing a jewel that wasn’t rightfully his, and now we have to do it again? Except this time, you want that same maniac to help us out?”

Bravestone narrowed his eyes. “Like it or not, but he’s the only help we have. Nobody else knows as much about the jewels or just how powerful they can be.”

“I’m sorry Bravestone, but this is where I draw the line,” Roundhouse interrupted. “If you honestly think any of us would willingly work with that bastard, you’re wrong.”

Van Pelt remained silent as he watched the woman draw closer to Finbar, her pistol still held at the ready. Billingsley’s eyes flickered between them, newfound panic growing on his face.

For a fleeting moment, all eyes suddenly fell on Oberon. It was as if an unspoken curiosity had befallen the group of people as they regarded the other man. Bravestone seemed too defeated to even question him, staring ahead with a vacant, impassive expression.

Seaplane didn’t say a word. Oberon could only shift uncomfortably under everyone’s stare, his skin hot and flushed as his mind broiled noisily between his ears.

Suddenly, a burst of white-hot anger overcame Oberon. A cold sweat collected in the small of his back, burning like ice against his sweltering skin. His fingers clenched together to the point of pain, snapping under each rigid tendon as the Professor felt his tongue swell in his mouth.

Something snapped. An audible crack resounded in Oberon’s ear as he turned toward Van Pelt, merciless.

“Fuck you,” Oberon snarled, unbidden by insurmountable rage. “You should have died that night, you son of a bitch.”

A shocked hush descended on the group as Oberon’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Van Pelt silently stared back at him as the Professor descended into panic, his chest heaving with each and every ragged breath.

Oberon turned his back on the man. Fisting his hands into Seaplane’s suit, he pushed past the pilot and groped blindly for the nearby door handle, exiting the small room without a care in the world for who would join him.

* * *

“Well. That certainly couldn’t have gone any worse,” Roundhouse murmured, not a shred of humor to be found in her voice.

There wasn’t a single person within the office that made any attempt to contribute to her astute observation. Seaplane had been quick to follow his partner, not wasting a second before he too left the room, right on the man’s heels. Bravestone remained frozen in place, still attempting to process Oberon’s parting words as they rang between his ears.

“I don’t blame the Professor,” Finbar interjected, his mouth still contorted in a sneer. “You couldn’t have planned this any more poorly, Alexander. What the hell were you thinking?”

Bravestone seemed too tired to argue, even as he levelly met the man’s gaze. “I was thinking that we need to stop a crazed warlord from destroying an entire island and its people before it’s too late.”

Finbar held his gaze, unblinking. Pressing his lips together, he glanced at Van Pelt out of the corner of his eye, perturbed by the man’s ability to remain completely motionless.

“So you want to help us then? You want to be a good guy now, just like that?”

A nervous disposition crossed Billingsley’s face. Van Pelt furrowed one thick brow, considering Finbar’s statement.

“If anyone could know just how dangerous these jewels are, it would be me. That is all I’m here for.”

Finbar let out a puff of laughter, eyes narrowed. “I don’t buy it. I don’t buy that for a second.”

Van Pelt didn’t reply, merely watching the other man as Finbar stalked forward, coming to a stop just a few inches away. Despite the obvious difference in height, Finbar didn’t relent for a second as he pointed a finger right against Van Pelt’s sternum.

“I’m not sure what kind of game you’re playing at, but I know you. I’ve never trusted you, not even back when you and Bravestone were still on speaking terms. If this is your way of trying to alleviate whatever guilt you feel for your past actions, I would suggest finding another way to channel all that moral culpability.”

Van Pelt leaned forward, now towering over Finbar as the shorter man held his ground. “I wouldn’t recommend overthinking my intentions, unless you want to injure yourself in the process.”

Before Finbar could even blink, Billingsley had one hand wrapped around Van Pelt’s shoulder, swiftly wedging himself between the two. A more robust look of frustration had passed over him, his eyes narrowed into a ruthless glare.

“That’s enough. Both of you.”

Finbar seemed reluctant to let the insult go unnoticed, scowling quietly in response. The standoff between the two men was now beginning to fizzle out, Van Pelt more focused on the scathing look that Billingsley had sent his way.

“You aren’t worth my time,” Finbar spat, turning his back on Van Pelt. “I’m done entertaining this entire situation.”

Roundhouse, appearing just as exhausted as her counterpart, finally holstered the derringer that had been resting at her side. “I think it’s time we nip this one in the bud, Bravestone.”

All eyes settled on Bravestone when the man didn’t respond, half-folding into himself beside the nearby desk. He brought one large palm up to swipe at his eyelids, resting his arm beneath his adjacent elbow.

When the man pulled his hand away, a haunted look had settled into his features. Bravestone seemed more broken than he had earlier, his dark eyes completely void of all emotion. Letting out a sigh, he turned to face Finbar and Roundhouse.

“I know I can’t change your mind. It’s a lot to ask of you. It’s my responsibility to make sure you’re all taken care of, and I’m asking the impossible. If none of you are comfortable with this arrangement, I cannot in good conscience ask you to join me.”

Roundhouse didn’t reply. Finbar shook his head, closing his eyes in anger.

“Goddamnit, Alexander. Don’t do this to me.”

Bravestone’s expression immediately shifted to one of remorse. “Please, Mouse. I’m not trying to guilt you. I... I just don’t want you to despise me for this decision.”

“I couldn’t despise you, Alexander—but you also cannot expect me to idly sit by and accept the cards that you’ve just dealt my way.”

Roundhouse nodded. “In the end, it isn’t up to us, Bravestone. Whether or not we agree with this decision has no bearing on the person whose opinion matters most.”

Without missing a beat, all sets of eyes fell onto the heavy wooden door at the front of the room, questioning whether the man would return to the nightmarish scene that had unfolded behind its closed doors.

* * *

The Professor could not see where he was going.

A slew of tears had made his vision blurry, and he blindly pushed past a maze ofwinding hallways before he came to a stop beside a large, oblong window. Pulling out a handkerchief, he shoved the silken material underneath his spectacles and dragged the cloth across his eyes, sniffling pathetically in an attempt to calm himself.

It was immensely quiet within the museum. If Oberon had to predict the time, it was well past midnight. The darkened walkways were illuminated only by the distant moon, glowing in beams of silver light that danced along the marble floor.

“Shelly, wait up!” A distant voice rang out. Craning his head to the side, Oberon fixed his glasses and watched Seaplane round the nearby corner, looking frantic.

“I’m—I’m fine,” Oberon hastily replied, trying to fix himself up as his partner skidded to a halt beside him. Seaplane seemingly ignored the Professor’s words, immediately bringing his hands up to cradle the man’s face between his palms.

“Don’t try to talk,” Seaplane murmured, swiping a thumb across the tear trails that lined Oberon’s cheeks. “Just breathe for a second.”

Although he should have been annoyed at being told what to do, Oberon could only let out another sob as he pressed into Seaplane’s steady hold. He felt remarkably childish, blubbering into the man’s comforting grip as if he were a toddler at the apex of a tantrum.

When he gained some modicum of self control, Oberon withdrew his handkerchief once more and scrubbed viciously at face. Seaplane watched the man with a doleful expression, slowly rubbing his hands down Oberon’s shoulders and across the small of his back.

“I’m sorry,” Oberon muttered, taking in another heaving breath in an attempt to compose himself. “I don’t... I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re allowed to be upset,” Seaplane whispered in reply, carefully extracting the cloth from Oberon’s hand. He gently dabbed the handkerchief across the other man’s cheek, holding Oberon in place by tipping two fingers under his chin.

Oberon closed his eyes, relishing the warm touches that Seaplane pressed against his skin. A lump caught in his throat at the thought of such tenderness, and a stab of adoration for the other man hit him so viscerally that he found his lungs constricting in his chest.

“I’m lucky to have you. I don’t deserve you.”

Seaplane paused, his hand still cradling Oberon’s face. “Don’t say that, Shelly. You deserve much more than I can ever provide.”

“That’s not true,” Oberon murmured, forcing open his eyes to meet Seaplane’s tender gaze. “I mean it, Jeff. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The pilot seemed at a loss for words. His eyes were glassy as he regarded Oberon with a pained expression.

“You mean everything to me, Shelly. You know that I’d do anything for you, if you asked.”

A phantom ringing of gunfire suddenly resounded in Oberon’s ears, sending a cold chill down the length of his spine. Gunsmoke and paranoia overcrowded his senses, throwing him back to the overgrown hilltop that he had tried so hard to forget. Panicked by the memory, the man couldn’t help but reach one hand forward to grope at the side of Seaplane’s abdomen.

The faint smell of iron flooded throughout his nostrils. Sliding his hand across Seaplane’s suit, Oberon was relieved to note that the sticky cloying of blood was nowhere to be found.

“It’s okay—I’m okay,” Seaplane breathed, covering Oberon’s hand with his own. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright. Bravestone—he brought him back, he brought that _bastard_ back, and I can’t even face him.”

Seaplane gave Oberon’s hand a squeeze. “You know I won’t let him do anything to you, right?”

A burst of anger burned low in Oberon’s gut. Pulling away from the other man, the Professor found himself glaring at Seaplane with a newfound fury.

“I don’t want you to have to protect me, Jeff. What I want is to go back in there and finish what Bravestone should have done two years ago.”

The pilot regarded Oberon with a wary look. “I know you’re upset. Believe me, I’m upset too. I didn’t exactly envision that tonight would end with us coming face-to-face with the same man who almost murdered me.”

Another stab of heartache hit squarely in the Professor’s chest. “And that’s why I can’t have you protecting me all the time. I won’t put you in that position ever again. I can’t... I can’t go through with losing you.”

A prolonged silence stretched between the two men. Even when the Professor’s eyes welled with unshed tears, he continued to hold Seaplane’s gaze, regarding the man that he loved more than life with a silent plea.

Seaplane let out a harsh sigh, severing himself from his partner’s gaze.

“I can understand why Bravestone did it, but I’m not sure I should be the one to say why.”

Oberon blanched, now narrowing his eyes as he processed Seaplane’s words. “What... what do you mean?”

An uncomfortable look passed over the pilot as he buried his hands deep into the pockets of his suit. Shifting his weight uneasily, he avoided looking anywhere in the Professor’s direction.

“If I tell you, I don’t want you to think I’m playing on your emotions.”

Another bout of confusion had Oberon’s frown growing deeper. “Alright. Tell me.”

More silence followed. Seaplane dragged one finger across his lower lip, carefully considering his next few words.

“Bravestone’s parents were killed by Jurgen. He was just a kid when it happened, but... but I can understand why he went to this kind of measure, even if I don’t agree with it.”

Oberon’s heart immediately caught in his throat. Pressing against the nearby wall, he stared blankly at the ground beneath his feet.

“Jurgen... he’s dangerous. More dangerous than anyone we’ve ever dealt with, right?”

Seaplane quietly regarded Oberon’s statement. “Yes. Most likely.”

“Even... even more dangerous than—?”

Oberon was unable to say the man’s name. Clenching his eyes shut, he forced himself to take a few steadying breaths, disappointed in his lack of nerve.

Before the man could wallow in his pity any longer, he heard the familiar sound of Seaplane approaching. A gentle hold on the pulse point at his wrist had him cracking one eye open, meeting the pilot’s consoling gaze.

“I won’t be upset,” Seaplane began, his voice barely a whisper. “I won’t be upset no matter what you decide, Shelly. If you want to stay here or go, it doesn’t matter to me.”

Oberon’s stomach flipped in fear. “How can you say that? How—how could you possibly be okay with this, after what he did to you?”

“Because I know that he doesn’t matter. What happened in the past... I can’t change it. I can hate him, and I _do_ hate him, but if what Bravestone said is true, then we don’t have time to rehash old feuds.”

Gripping the man’s hand as tightly as he could, Oberon shook his head. “I can’t make that decision for you. Jeff, I don’t think I can even go back there.”

Seaplane leaned in, skimming the Professor’s cheek with his spare hand. “If you don’t think you can, then you don’t have to. I can go talk to Bravestone, he’ll understand. We can be back at our flat in half an hour, and we can forget about all of this.”

Nausea overtook Oberon as he stared back at Seaplane, searching his dark eyes for a greater meaning to his words. His partner merely continued to caress his cheek without a hint of dubiety, offering forth a timid smile in turn.

A tinge of blood still scented the air around him, frightening the Professor as he shuffled into Seaplane’s hold. Oberon clenched down on the man, wrapping his arms around Seaplane’s shoulders as he stared back at the long hallway he had escaped from, completely void of all feeling but dread.

* * *

It had taken less than a minute for Oberon to find his way back to the director’s office. Seaplane had trailed right behind him, a silent purveyor to the indescribable determination that had beset his partner, rock steady even in his eager pace.

Oberon paused at the door for only a moment. Clasping his hands together in an attempt to assuage his shaking, he took a deep breath and wrapped his fist around the door handle, flinging his way back into the tiny room.

Five pairs of eyes stared back at Oberon in shock. Bravestone jumped as the door connected with the nearby wall, turning to meet the pair of men as they entered the room, silently staring.

“Seaplane, Professor,” Bravestone hastily announced, uncrossing his arms as he stood to his feet. “You’re back. I just—I just wanted to say that I already spoke with Mouse and Ruby, and I’ll be leaving tonight.”

Oberon paused, resolutely trying not to pay any attention to Van Pelt on the other side of the room. “What do you mean?”

Bravestone regarded Oberon with a curious expression. “I mean that... I’m leaving for Jumanji tonight. You and Seaplane—you’re staying here.”

The archeologist sounded far less confident than he had a moment before, his eyes now darting between the two men in alarm. Seaplane silently took another step forward and grasped at Oberon’s shoulder, comforting the man as Oberon dug deep to find his voice.

“If Jurgen is as dangerous as you say he is, Dr. Bravestone, then there’s no way I can let you do this by yourself.”

A stunned silence deafened the entire room. Finbar’s jaw nearly unhinged as he gawked at the Professor, immediately taking a few panicked steps toward him.

“Shelly, are you serious? I mean—I don’t—”

“Be quiet Mouse,” Roundhouse spat, interrupting Finbar with a glare. “Let the Professor speak.”

Bravestone hadn’t even been able to move an inch from his place nearby the desk. His eyes were wide as he continued to gape at Oberon, his mouth slightly parted in complete and utter disbelief.

“Professor... I understand that I’m asking too much of you and Seaplane. Please, don’t make this decision because of me, I don’t—”

“I’m not making this decision because of you,” Oberon interjected. “I’m making this decision because I know that I couldn’t deal with the consequences otherwise.”

Seaplane gripped his shoulder more tightly, easing the burst of anxiety that churned deep in Oberon’s stomach. A terse silence stretched across the room as he slowly disconnected from the other man, averting his gaze as he took a few unsteady steps forward.

It was a testament of courage for Oberon as he pressed on, knowing that the sight before him would bring back every horrible memory he had tried to repress over the past two years. His hands could not stop trembling, icy cold to the touch as he clenched them at his sides.

Oberon took in another steadying breath. Gritting his teeth together, he craned his head back and met Van Pelt’s curious gaze, trying not to flinch as he regarded the dark, leathery patch that obscured his left eye.

All of the pain and anger that the Professor had clung to only intensified under the scrutiny of Van Pelt’s dark gaze. Oberon nearly choked on a harsh lungful of air, psyching himself up for what he was about to say.

“I hate you,” Oberon whispered, not breaking the stare they now shared under a fearfully-close proximity. “And I think you already know that. I think you know that under any other circumstance, I wouldn’t have even let you set foot in this building.”

Van Pelt did not even blink, his silence only incentivizing Oberon further.

“I think you’re many things, but an idiot is not one of them. I don’t think you’d be crazy enough to come back here, to even _dare_ show your face around Seaplane or I without a damn good reason for it.”

Behind Van Pelt, Billingsley shifted uncomfortably, seemingly wanting to separate the two men before anything escalated further. Swallowing hard around the lump in his throat, Oberon furrowed his brows, glaring at Van Pelt with a newfound fervor.

“If you come with us, I’m letting you know right now that I don’t trust you. I won’t ever trust you, and if you even think that I’m going to stand by and let you pretend to be a part of this group, you’d be wrong. Not a second will go by without me watching you, and I can guarantee that I won’t be accepting any mistakes on your part.”

The deafening quiet that filled the room was broken only by the pulse of Oberon’s heart pounding in his ears. Willing himself to finally take a step back, his face remained flushed and angry-red as he brewed beneath Van Pelt’s unblinking gaze.

Another beat passed. Van Pelt soundlessly extended one hand, continuing to hold Oberon’s stare without a shred of visible hostility.

Oberon’s stomach churned. “Save your handshakes for Bravestone.”

Van Pelt kept his hand extended for a few seconds more, as if he were considering whether or not to call the Professor’s bluff. Turning on his heel, Oberon pointedly looked away from the other man and fixed his attention on Bravestone.

“So, I guess the only other question to address is when we’re leaving.”

Bravestone gave a curt nod, the timorous expression on his face shifting to one of resolution. “Time isn’t exactly on our side, so I expected to leave as soon as we all can get packed. Preferably before dawn.”

Roundhouse gave a curt nod at Bravestone’s words. “Alright. I suppose it looks like I’m joining you as well, Professor. Mouse?”

Finbar could not hide the anger that simmered behind his gaze. Glancing between the other members of the group, he crossed his arms and let out an anguished sigh.

“I don’t agree with this at all, but it looks like I’ve been outvoted.”

Seaplane was quick to make his way toward Oberon’s side, joining the semi-circle with a slightly befuddled expression. “You already have a plane for us to use, Doc?”

“Yes. Nigel knows how to fly, and he was able to get one here before I could.”

Billingsley appeared almost bashful as Seaplane fixed him with an incredulous look, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. Clearing his throat, the other man took a hesitant step forward.

“As always, Mr. McDonough, you are more than welcome to take over since my skills are somewhat rusty.”

“Alright,” Seaplane murmured. “I could always use a copilot, anyway.”

The nearly imperceptible grin that stretched across Bravestone’s face had Oberon feeling slightly abated. Shifting closer to his partner, he tried to ignore the discernable presence of Van Pelt behind him and focused his attention on Bravestone.

“Let’s try to meet back here in an hour,” Bravestone announced, withdrawing his pocket watch. “Two o’clock at the latest. Try to pack light, and pack warm. Anything that isn’t necessary to take with you should be left behind. Agreed?”

A quiet murmur of understanding met his words. Pocketing his watch, Bravestone met Oberon’s gaze and gave another nod of consideration.

“I don’t think I need to say much else. One hour. Be back here.”

* * *

The sky was still painted black by the time the pair had finished packing their things.

The drive back to their tiny flat had passed by in a blur. Exhaustion over the day’s events had drained Oberon of what little energy he remained to keep, his eyes closing of their own volition as he settled his forehead against the car’s frosted window. All of the stubborn thoughts and worries that plagued him seemed to vanish in seconds, pulled from his mind as he allowed the sweet touch of sleep to grace him momentarily.

Oberon came-to when their automobile jostled to an abrupt halt. Blinking away the last few remnants of sleep, Oberon craned his head to the side and glanced out the windshield, his eyebrows furrowing as nothing but darkness stared back at him.

“Where are we?” Oberon grumbled, forcing himself to sit upright as he peered intently out the window. “This... this isn’t the museum.”

“We already stopped at the museum,” Seaplane murmured, his familiar smile comforting in Oberon’s confused daze. “I didn’t want to wake you up. That was over an hour ago.”

Oberon rubbed one palm against his eyelids. “Where in the hell are we, then?”

Seaplane decided to ignore his partner’s haphazard questioning, pushing the wooden brake into place in one fluid motion. Plucking the keys from the ignition, he exited the vehicle and made his way towards the trunk of the car, motioning for Oberon to join him.

Letting out another yawn, Oberon threw open the passenger-side door and gave himself a much-needed stretch. The dull ache that spread across his lower back had him grimacing as he followed his gaze toward the car’s two beaming headlights. Taking a few unsteady steps forward, he blinked the bleariness from his eyes as the blinding white lights illuminated the open, grassy clearing before him.

The Professor’s mouth fell open at the sight. A rather enormous aeroplane had been hidden right before his very eyes—just a meter or so past the very edges of the light’s reach. How it had managed to get there was the least perplexing question on Oberon’s mind as he spun around, focusing his attention back on Seaplane.

“Now _that’s_ a gorgeous plane,” Seaplane murmured, just as awestruck in appearance as Oberon felt internally. “Jesus. It makes my Avro look like a buggy.”

A flicker of movement from the inside of the aircraft drew Oberon’s attention. In the matter of a second, the oblong side door of the fuselage burst open, revealing a familiar silhouette against a bright yellow backdrop.

“Congratulations on being the first to arrive!” Billingsley called out into the cool night air.

“No surprise there,” Seaplane replied with a smirk, juggling both his and the Professor’s bags in tow. Once the pair had made it to the plane’s entrance, Billingsley extended a hand to grab ahold of their mismatched bags, offering a tentative smile in turn.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking up some room inside the cockpit,” the man announced, nodding his head towards the line of seats to his left. “We had to sacrifice some space for a few necessary supplies.”

Seaplane quirked up an eyebrow. “It shouldn’t be a problem for me. Before I agree, however, I have to pry. Where on earth did you happen upon a Ford Trimotor?”

“An old friend lent it to me,” Billingsley called over his shoulder, stashing the pair’s bags beside a few haphazard boxes. “He personally helped build this one back in 1929. As far as I know, he kept it for himself after he retired from the business.”

“And... you can pilot it as well?” Oberon intervened, still perplexed by Billingsley’s undisclosed abilities.

“I’m quite rusty, but yes. Way back in 1918, I had my first run-in with flying an aeroplane when my brigade stumbled upon a fallen Albatros _Flugzeugwerke_.”

Seaplane blanched. “You fought in the Great War?”

“Fourth New Zealand Infantry Brigade, 3rd Auckland Battalion. That was before I became an old man,” Billingsley replied with a good-humored wink. “I can’t say that I miss those days.”

Oberon felt as every bit surprised as Seaplane appeared. “I had no idea... I don’t suppose you have any interesting piloting tales to share?”

Billingsley met Seaplane’s enthusiasm with a grin. “It’s a long flight back to Jumanji. Professor Oberon, seeing as you’re already ready to go, why don’t you pick a seat? There aren’t many to choose from, but I’m sure you’ll find the most comfortable spot.”

Nodding absentmindedly, the Professor ambled past Billingsley and watched as the two man ascended into the cockpit, already exchanging stories. Turning to his right, he eyed the large leather seats that sat in two pristine rows, noting that the one at his left was obscured by a mound of various supplies.

A shift of movement near the back caught Oberon’s eye. Feeling his heart leap in his chest, he almost hadn’t noticed the ominous presence of Van Pelt in the very last seat—his face thankfully obscured by a wall of dark hair.

Biting down the fear that flooded through his veins, Oberon picked the seat closest to the cockpit and turned his back on the other man. Feeling slightly embarrassed over his lack of emotional control, he turned himself towards the nearby window and stared out into the rosy glimmer of early dawn.

Just beyond the horizon, the faint streaks of daybreak were beginning to crest over the rutted hillside. Exhaustion had finally begun to settle into the Professor’s mind, willing him to close his eyes and forget the day’s events. Resting his forehead against the wooden paneling, he resolutely shut his gaze to the world and willed the warm embrace of sleep to envelop him once more.

Just as Oberon drifted off into a much-needed slumber, the fear that haunted him returned in full force. A repeating mantra, denigrating the difficult decision that weighed heavily on his mind, echoed loudly between his ears.

_You’ve made a terrible mistake._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter update will not take as long as this one did! Motivation is hard to come by in these times, but I’m excited to introduce a certain pickpocketing burglar in the next chapter. Thanks for reading!


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